Sita slowly reached for her scabbard, where her knife should have been. Her hand tensed. Ram watched with keen interest: no sudden movements, not a twitch of nervous energy when she realised she carried no weapon.
Sita spoke evenly. ‘The law does not make any distinction. The boy will be punished. But if you try to interfere, so will you.’
Ram was spellbound. She’s a follower of the law…
Lakshman smiled. He had never thought he would find another as obsessed with the law as his brother.
‘Enough already!’ shouted the man. He looked at the mob and screamed as he swung his hand. ‘She’s just one! There are hundreds of us! Come on!’
‘But she’s a princess!’ Someone from the back tried to reason weakly.
‘No, she’s not!’ shouted the man. ‘She is not King Janak’s real daughter. She’s adopted!’
Sita suddenly pushed the boy out of the way, stepped back and dislodged with her foot an upright bamboo stick that held the awning of a shop in place. It fell to the ground. She flicked the stick with her foot, catching it with her right hand in one fluid motion. She swung the stick expertly in her hand, twirling it around with such fearsome speed that it whipped up a loud, humming sound. The leader of the mob remained stationary, out of reach.
‘Dada,’ whispered Lakshman. ‘We should step in.’
‘She has it under control.’
Sita stopped swinging and held the stick to her side, one end tucked under her armpit, ready to strike. ‘Go back quietly to your houses, nobody will get hurt. The boy will be punished according to the law; nothing more, nothing less.’
The mob leader pulled out a knife and swiftly moved forward. Sita swerved back as he swung the blade wildly. In the same movement, she steadied herself by going back one step and then down on one knee, swinging her stick with both her hands. The weapon hit the man behind his knee. Even before his knee buckled, she transferred her weight to her other foot and yanked the stick upwards, using his own legs as leverage as his feet went up in the air. His legs flew upwards and he fell hard, flat on his back. Sita instantly rose, held the stick high above her head with both her hands, and struck his chest hard; one brutal strike. Ram heard the sound of the rib cage cracking with the fierce blow.
Sita twirled the stick and held it out, one end tucked under her armpit again; her left hand stretched out, her feet spread wide, offering her the balance she needed to move to either side swiftly. ‘Anyone else?’
The crowd took one step back. The swift and brutal downing of their leader seemed to have driven some sense into them. Sita forced the point home. ‘Anyone else wants a cracked rib, free of charge?’
They began to move backwards, even as the people in the back melted away.
Sita summoned a man who stood to the right of Ram, pointing towards the one who lay prone on the ground. ‘Kaustav! Round up a few men and take Vijay to the ayuralay. I will check on him later.’
Kaustav and his friends rushed forward. As she turned, Ram finally beheld her visage.
Had the entire universe garnered all its talents into creating a perfect feminine face — of delicate beauty and ferocious will — this would be it. Her round face was a shade lighter than the rest of her body, with high cheekbones and a sharp, small nose; her lips were neither thin nor full; her wide-set eyes were neither small nor large; strong brows arched in a perfect curve above creaseless eyelids, and a limpid fire shone in her eyes, enhanced right now by what she had unleashed. A faint birthmark on her right temple made real a face that to Ram was both flawless and magnificent. She had the look of the mountain people from the Himalayas; Ram had fond memories of them from his short visit to the valley of Kathmandu, when he was young. Her straight, jet-black hair was braided and tied into a neat bun. Her warrior’s body carried the proud scars from battle wounds.
‘Dada…’ Lakshman’s voice seemed to have travelled from a distant land. It was, quite simply, almost inaudible to him.
Ram stood as if he was carved from marble. Lakshman knew his brother so well; the more transfixed his face, the deeper the tumult of emotions within.
Lakshman touched Ram’s shoulder. ‘Dada…’
Ram still could not respond. He was mesmerised. Lakshman turned his attention back to Sita.
She threw the stick away and caught hold of the boy-thief. ‘Come on.’
‘My Lady,’ pleaded the boy. ‘I’m sorry. This will be the last time. I’m really sorry.’
Sita tugged at the boy’s hand and began to walk briskly towards Ram and Lakshman. Lakshman took hold of Ram’s elbow and attempted to step aside. But Ram seemed to be in the grip of a higher power. His face was expressionless, his body still, his eyes almost unblinking, his breathing even and regular. The only movement was his angvastram fluttering in the breeze; exaggerated by his immobility.
Almost as if it was beyond his control, Ram bowed his head.
Lakshman held his breath as his mouth fell open. He had never thought he’d see this day; after all, which woman would inspire the admiration of a man such as his brother? That love would slam into a heart that had only known obedience to, and strict control of, his mind? That a man whose mission was to raise every person’s head with pride and purpose would find comfort in bowing to another?
A line from an ancient poem came floating into his mind; one that his romantic heart had found ethereal. But he had never thought his staid elder brother would find meaning in that line before he did.
She has that something, like the thread in a crystal-bead necklace. She holds it all together.
Lakshman could see that his brother had found the thread that would hold the disparate beads of his life together.
Ram’s heart, despite the fact that it had never been given free rein due to his immense self-control, was probably aware that it had just found its greatest ally. It had found Sita.
She came to a standstill, surprised by these two strangers blocking her path; one looked like a giant but loveable ruffian, and the other was too dignified for the coarse clothes he wore. Strangely, for some reason, he was bowing to her.
‘Out of my way!’ snapped Sita, as she pushed past Ram.
Ram stepped aside, but she had already whizzed past, dragging the boy-thief along.
Lakshman immediately stepped up and touched Ram on his back. ‘Dada…’
Ram hadn’t turned to see Sita walking away. He stood mystified, almost as if his disciplined mind was trying to analyse what had just happened; what his heart had just done to him. He seemed surprised beyond measure; by himself.
‘Umm, Dada…’ said Lakshman, smiling broadly now.
‘Hmm?’
‘Dada, she’s gone. I think you can raise your head now.’
Ram finally looked at Lakshman, a hint of a smile on his face.
‘Dada!’ Lakshman gave a loud laugh, stepped forward and embraced his brother. Ram patted him on his back. But his mind was preoccupied.
Lakshman stepped back and said, ‘She’ll make a great bhabhi!’
Ram frowned, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s unbridled enthusiasm in referring to the princess as his sister-in-law.
‘I guess we will be going to the swayamvar now,’ said Lakshman, winking.
‘Let’s go back to our room for now,’ said Ram, his expression calm again.
‘Right!’ said Lakshman, still laughing. ‘Of course, we should behave maturely about this! Mature! Calm! Stoic! Controlled! Have I forgotten any word, Dada?!’
Ram tried to keep his face expressionless but it was obviously a bigger struggle than usual. He finally surrendered to his inner joy and his face lit up with a dazzling smile.
The brothers began to walk back to the Bees Quarter.
‘We must tell Arishtanemiji that you will, after all, be participating in the swayamvar willingly!’ said Lakshman.
As Ram fell a few steps behind Lakshman, he allowed himself another full smile. His mind had probably begun to understand what had just happened to him. W
hat his heart had done to him.
‘This is good news,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘I’m delighted that you have decided to obey the law.’
Ram maintained a calm demeanour. Lakshman couldn’t seem to control his smile.
‘Yes, of course, Arishtanemiji,’ said Lakshman. ‘How can we disregard the law? Especially one that has been recorded in two Smritis!’
Arishtanemi frowned, not really understanding Lakshman’s sudden about-turn. He shrugged and turned to address Ram. ‘I will inform Guruji right away that you are willing to participate in the swayamvar.’
‘Dada!’ said Lakshman, rushing into their room.
It had been just five days since Ram had seen Sita. And there were less than two days to go for the swayamvar.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ram, putting down the palm-leaf book he had been reading.
‘Just come with me, Dada,’ insisted Lakshman, as he grabbed Ram by the hand.
‘What is it, Lakshman?’ asked Ram once again.
They were on top of the Bees Quarter, walking down the streets. They moved in the direction away from the city. This section of the Bees Quarter actually merged with the inner fort wall, making it a fantastic lookout point to see the fields up to the outer wall and beyond at the land outside the city. A massive crowd had gathered, many of them pointing and gesticulating wildly as they spoke to each other.
‘Lakshman… Where are you taking me?’
He did not get an answer.
‘Move aside,’ said Lakshman harshly as he pushed his way through the throng, leading Ram by the hand. People got out of the way at the sight of the muscular giant, and soon the brothers were at the wall.
As soon as they reached the edge, Ram’s attention was caught by what he saw. Beyond the second wall and the lake-moat, in the clearing ahead of the forest line, a small army seemed to be gathering with devastating precision and discipline. There were ten standard bearers at regular intervals, holding their flags high. Waves of soldiers emerged from the forest in neat rows and, within a few minutes, they were all in formation, approximately a thousand behind each standard. Intriguingly, they had left a large area clear, right in the centre of their formation.
Ram noticed that the colour of the dhotis that the soldiers wore was the same as their standards. He estimated that there must be ten thousand soldiers. Not a very large number, but enough to cause serious trouble to a city like Mithila, which was not a garrison city.
‘Which kingdom has sent this army?’ asked Ram.
‘It’s apparently not an army,’ remarked the man standing next to Lakshman. ‘It’s a bodyguard corps.’
Ram was about to pose another question to the man when they were all distracted by the reverberating sounds of conch shells being blown by the soldiers in the clearing. A moment later, even this sound was drowned out by one that Ram had not heard before. It almost seemed like a giant demon was slicing through the air with quick strokes from a gigantic sword.
Lakshman looked up, tracing the source of the sound. ‘What the…’
The crowd watched in awe. It must be the legendary flying vehicle that was the proud possession of Lanka, the Pushpak Vimaan. It was a giant conical craft, made of some strange, unknown metal. Massive rotors attached to the top of the vehicle, right at its pointed end, were swinging with a powerful force in a right to left, circular motion. A few smaller rotors were attached close to the base, on all sides. The body of the craft had many portholes, each of which was covered with thick glass.
The vehicle made a noise that could overpower that of trumpeting elephants in hot pursuit. It appeared to intensify as it hovered above the trees for a bit. As it did so, small circular metal screens descended over the portholes, covering them completely, blocking any view of the insides of the Vimaan. The crowd gaped in unison at this outlandish sight as they covered their ears. So did Lakshman. But Ram did not. He stared at the craft with a visceral anger welling up deep inside him. He knew whom it belonged to. He knew who was in there. The man responsible for having destroyed all possibilities of a happy childhood before Ram was even born. He stood amidst the throng as if he was alone. His eyes burned with fearsome intensity.
The sound of the rotors suddenly dipped as the craft began its descent. The Pushpak Vimaan landed perfectly in the clearing designated for it, in the centre of the formations of the Lankan soldiers. The Mithilans of the Bees Quarter spontaneously broke into applause. For the soldiers of Lanka though, they may not have existed at all. They stood absolutely straight, rooted to their positions, in a remarkable display of raw discipline.
A few minutes later, a section of the conical Vimaan swung open, revealing a perfectly concealed door. The door slid aside and a giant of a man filled the doorway. He stepped out and surveyed the ground before him. A Lankan officer ran up to him and gave him a crisp salute. They exchanged some quick words and the giant looked intently towards the wall, at the avid spectators. He abruptly turned around and walked back into the Vimaan. After a while, he appeared again, this time walking out, followed by another man.
The second man was distinctly shorter than the first, and yet taller than the average Mithilan; probably of the same height as Ram. But unlike Ram’s lean muscular physique, this Lankan was of gigantic proportions. His swarthy skin, handlebar moustache, thick beard and pock-marked face lent him an intimidating air. He wore a violet dhoti and angvastram, a colour-dye that was among the most expensive in the Sapt Sindhu. He wore a large headgear with two threatening six-inch curved horns stretching out from either side. He stooped a bit as he walked.
‘Raavan…’ whispered Lakshman.
Ram did not respond.
Lakshman looked at Ram. ‘Dada…’
Ram remained silent, looking intently at the king of Lanka in the distance.
‘Dada,’ said Lakshman. ‘We should leave.’
Ram looked at Lakshman. There was fire in his eyes. He then turned back to look at the Lankans beyond the second wall of Mithila; to the Lankan beyond the second wall of Mithila.
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Chapter 22
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‘Please don’t leave,’ pleaded Arishtanemi. ‘Guruji is as troubled as you are. We don’t know how or why Raavan landed up here. But Guruji thinks it’s safer for the two of you to remain within the fort walls.’
Ram and Lakshman sat in their room in the Bees Quarter. Arishtanemi had returned with a plea from Vishwamitra to the princes of Ayodhya: please do not leave. Raavan had set up camp outside the walls of Mithila. He had not entered the city, though a few of his emissaries had. They had gone straight to the main palace to speak to King Janak and his younger brother King Kushadhwaj; the latter had newly arrived in the city to attend the swayamvar.
‘Why should I bother about what Guru Vishwamitra thinks?’ asked Lakshman aggressively. ‘I only care about my elder brother! Nobody can guess what this demon from Lanka will do! We have to leave! Now!’
‘Please think about this with a calm mind. How will you be safe all alone in the jungle? You are better off within the walls of the city. The Malayaputras are here for your defence.’
‘We cannot just sit here, waiting for events to unfold. I am leaving with my brother. You Malayaputras can do whatever the hell you want to!’
‘Prince Ram,’ Arishtanemi turned to Ram, ‘please, trust me. What I am advising is the best course of action. Do not withdraw from the swayamvar. Do not leave the city.’
Ram’s external demeanour was calm as usual, and yet Arishtanemi sensed a different energy; the inner serenity, so typical of Ram, was missing.
Had Ram been truly honest with himself, he would admit that there were many who had hurt him, who he should have at least resented, if not hated, with equal ferocity. Raavan, after all, had simply done his job; he had won a battle that he had fought. However, the child that Ram had once been was incapable of such rationalisation. That lonely and hurt child had focused all his frustration and anger at the injustices that he had fa
ced on the iconic, invisible demon who had wrought such a devastating change in his father, turning him into a bitter man who constantly put his eldest son down and neglected him. As a child, he had convinced himself that Raavan had triggered all his misfortunes; that if Raavan had not won that battle on that terrible day in Karachapa, Ram would not have suffered so.
The anger that Ram reserved for Raavan stemmed from that childhood memory — it was overwhelming and beyond reason.
Arishtanemi had left for Vishwamitra’s guest quarters, leaving Ram and Lakshman to themselves.
‘Dada, trust me, let’s just escape from here,’ said Lakshman. ‘There are ten thousand Lankans; we’re only two. I’m telling you, if push comes to shove, even the Mithilans and Malayaputras will side with Raavan.’
Ram stared at the garden beyond, through the only window in the room.
‘Dada,’ said Lakshman, insistent. ‘We need to make a run for it. I’ve been told there’s a second gate at the other end of the city-wall. Nobody, except for the Malayaputras, knows who we are. We can escape quietly and return with the Ayodhya army. We will teach the damned Lankans a lesson, but for now, we need to run.’
Ram turned to Lakshman and spoke with eerie calm. ‘We are the descendants of Ikshvaku, the descendants of Raghu. We will not run away.’
‘Dada…’
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. He cast a quick look at Ram and drew his sword. Ram frowned. ‘Lakshman, if someone wanted to assassinate us, he wouldn’t knock. He would just barge in. There is no place to hide in here.’
Lakshman continued to stare at the door, unsure whether he should sheath his sword.
‘Just open the door, Lakshman,’ said Ram.
Lakshman crept up the stairs to the horizontal door on the roof. He held his sword to his side, ready to strike if the need so arose. There was another knock, more insistent this time. Lakshman pushed the door open to find Samichi, the police and protocol chief of Mithila, peering down at him. She was a short-haired, tall, dark-skinned and muscular woman, and her soldier’s body bore scars of honour from battles well fought. She wore a blouse and dhoti made from the same green cloth. She had on leather armbands and a leather under-blouse; a sheathed long sword hung by
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